


The King Meets the Smith

by Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion



Series: Happy Celebrimbor Things [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion/pseuds/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion
Summary: Finarfin has to face Celebrimbor after he arrives to Middle Earth with an army. It goes better than he expects.





	The King Meets the Smith

**Author's Note:**

> (copied from tumblr)

Arafinwë had no idea what to expect. Of course, it was his job and not Ingwion’s or anyone else’s. Their army, mighty as it appeared, was only half-outfitted. So many Elves enlisted in the ranks of the Light that even Aulë and his Maiar were spent forging swords and making armor. Elven smiths who stayed in Aman knew not how to make proper weapons, as their customers had had little use for them - until now.

In Middle Earth, it was different. Arafinwë heard that Noldorin smiths here were highly skilled, perhaps nearly as skilled as his late brother had been. Arafinwë did not want to think of Fëanaro, yet he could not help it. The Noldor who met them in the harbor told him that the armorers and other crafters gathered around a Noldorin lord who handled all the commissions. At first, Arafinwë shook his head: he did not come all the way here from Valinor to negotiate with an artisan. He would just tell the  _local_ king his army needed swords and armor (thought a potential conversation with  _another king of the Noldor_  was a tough task in itself). But then, the Noldorin informant told him the name of this lord forgemaster: Tyelperinquar.

He did  _not_ know how to handle it. As a king, he had learned to solve a variety of diplomatic problems: for one thing, it was thank to him that the Valinorean Noldor were at peace with the Teleri. This, however, was different. Last time he saw Tyelpë, the latter was but a child, tugging at his lordly robes and asking for sweets. What had become of him? Would he be imposing, overbearing, and quick to anger like his famed grandfather? Would he be secretive and grumpy like his father? Though Arafinwë was careful not to ask such a blunt question, he was sure that Tyelperinquar was not happy with Gil-Galad being king of the Noldor - as a descendant of Fëanor, he had a stronger claim to the crown.

He also had a far stronger claim to it than Arafinwë ever did.

This, and this alone, was the reason that he, a king and a commander of a mighty army, traveled to Tyelperinquar’s place of residence instead of summoning him. Well, and it probably made no sense to summon him anyway: no Fëanorian would be ordered around, Arafinwë had learned that. The poor state of the place did not discourage the kind: by now, he had gotten used to such sights. It was despairing, to think that his kin had to live in this dreadful region, struggling for safety, food, and shelter day by day. Arafinwë felt a bit guilty for his comfortable life in the sunny Tirion. Winter looked miserable to him.

There were more Noldor here than he had expected, soldiers and crafters alike. He passed a young woman in an apron refitting a mail shirt for a very skinny warrior who waited nearby. The sight brought a smile to his face; he would tell Nerdanel.

“Good hit, Gil!” a cheerful voice broke the silence filled with the clanking of metal and the crunch of snow. “Right into my face!”

Arafinwë turned his head in the direction of the voice and spotted a tall Elf, too lightly dressed, and another one farther away. Apparently, they were throwing snowballs at each other. Arafinwë smiled. Hurrying, another Elf approached the two and spoke in a concerned voice. The Elf who stood closer turned to Arafinwë and his followers, and the king froze. Pitch-dark hair, a thick braid thrown over the shoulder, curious, cat-like eyes… Could it be?..

“Fëanaro,” Arafinwë gasped. “You’re alive!”

The Elf in question blinked in surprise, stunned for a second, and then laughed. His voice was much softer than Fëanaro’s.

“Fëanaro out,” he winked, smiling mischievously. “Tyelperinquar in charge. How may I help you, uncle Ara?”

Arafinwë had to sigh with relief as he dismounted. “Tyelpë,” he whispered tenderly, wrapping his arms around his nephew who approached eagerly for a hug. “You’ve grown so tall, darling boy…”

“Maybe I have,” Tyelpë replied, nuzzling into the king’s shoulder, “but the question stays the same: have you any sweets for me?”

That question brought a smile to Arafinwë’s face: some things did not change.

“Tyelpë, who is that?” came a voice, and Arafinwë had to let go of his nephew. He was modestly dressed and did not wear a crown, so it was no surprise he was not recognized.

“My uncle Ara, the ultimate provider of candy,” Tyelpë introduced him with mock seriousness, “also known as the king of the Noldor.”

The other Elf, also tall and dark-haired, his appearance slightly resembling Finwë’s, snorted at Tyelpë.

“And this one right here is Artanáro the snowball knight, also known as the king of the Noldor,” Tyelpë continued, barely suppressing his laugh. “And in case you are going to fight for the crown, I will quote my dear grandfather:  _not in my forge_.”

Arafinwë had heard Fëanaro say this so many times he could not suppress a laugh, and the younger king joined him.

“It is an honor to meet you,” Gil-Galad finally spoke after they were done laughing. He even offered a little bow.

“Yeah, yeah, play nice, maybe you’ll get candy,” Tyelpë interfered.

“Please forgive Tyelperinquar,” the young king spoke to Arafinwë, deliberately ignoring Tyelpë, “the only way he can do diplomacy is by making people laugh.”

“Well, that’s certainly better than my grandfather’s and my father’s way, don’t you agree?” Tyelpë replied, still giggling.

That brought another round of laughter.

“As a matter of fact, I  _have_ brought candy,” Arafinwë smiled triumphantly.

“Look, Gil,” Tyelpë turned to his friend, “he brought candy  _and_ an army. I am planning to change allegiance, mind you!”

“You swore to me!” Gil protested and pinched Tyelpë’s upper arm, drawing a squeak.

“I am very,  _very_ bad with oaths, I have to admit this,” Tyelpë answered, rubbing his injured arm. “Well, fine, my kings, let’s go indoors. We have work to do, Morgoth ain’t kicking his own butt!”

Arafinwë chuckled at his nephew’s choice of language, following him inside. That was right, Morgoth was not, but a friendly bunch of Noldor and Vanyar damn well could.


End file.
